


Welcome to TwinVale

by lizdamnit



Category: Twin Peaks, TwinVale, wtnv
Genre: Drafts, Folklore, M/M, Multi, NSFW, Other, a lot of thought went in, but bear with, but that could change, frustrated lit major wanking, i have yet to hammer out what dimension this is in if any, no really NSFW, ok not always porny, only "Angels" has sex at the moment, so these chapters will be disjointed, sometimes tentacles, strange idea, strange sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizdamnit/pseuds/lizdamnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok, so I did this:</p><p>Epic of Gilgamesh(Twin Peaks) + Egyptian book of the dead(Night Vale) + occasional pornishness = TwinVale</p><p>What we're working with is he premise is that NV is an afterlife of sorts, and a couple characters from TP are psychopomps, and Denise specifically is Sidduri.  Most of the other souls in the "friendly desert community" are just that - souls who either don't know or choose not to acknowledge they are dead.  However, life continues as normal, for varying values of normal.  Until StrexCorp, which is pretty much BOB having graduated from individualized evil to a larger scale.</p><p>This is new and somewhat disjointed, so bear with.  Not every chapter will be SuperSerious(tm), so once in a while I'll veer off into silliness.  Even if nearly everyone is a ghost or a shade, they still have to live their (un)lives, so it's not terribly supernatural.  They still have to go to the grocery stores, have sex, do taxes, etc.</p><p>So enjoy this tour through my madness!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thrift Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dale comes to at a thrift store, under the protective, if unnerving care of the Log Lady.

The bells on the door clanged as Dale pushed it open. The sound was too sharp, triggering a deep pain in his head. He stood for a moment, hand on the doorknob, clenching his jaw at the pain, breathing deeply through his nose.

The shop was a shambles, and had been for quite a while, judging by the dust motes swirling in the air. Objects of every kind were piled on each other in precarious piles. He wasn't sure how he was going to walk around, since the aisles were so choked with things. There was no readily apparent logic or reason to the array of things in the shop. Dusty fox stoles surrounded desk fans, nestled in stained baby strollers parked next to globes and piles of hangers. The detritus of everyday life was dumped into this place with little thought. Daylight didn't penetrate far into the store, and the buzzing fluorescent bulbs didn't help. The effect was overwhelming, and Dale reeled for a moment. Years and years of stuff just laying everywhere. Once loved treasures forgotten. Treasures, or at least the utilitarian, invisible objects that make life happen. This was an afterlife for crap.

As he took his first tentative steps even farther into the shop, he tried to remember why he was there. He could have sworn he came into this thrift shop for something, but he suddenly had no idea. That had been happening for the better part of the year, the sudden loss of purpose mid-action. He used to be able to focus his mind so easily. Still, here he was. He may as well look around until he knew what he was there for. And that could take a while - this was the kind of place it was easy to lose your way in.

First things first, be exactly where you are. Dale silently mouthed the phrase as he moved from pile to pile. He picked up a mug, Mug. M-U-G. "This is in my hand. This is a real thing in my hand", he thought. "This is what I came here for, my old coffee mug broke. No, it didn't break. I lost it. I am here looking to replace my coffee mug". This was very similar to the one he had. Lost. Misplaced. He corrected himself several times.

This is as good as any other. He picked up the mug and looked hard at it. He knew these contours, that chip on the handle. This *was* his mug, the one he left behind that day.

He knitted his brow. He left this on Harry’s desk. Where's Harry? Wait, did he know a Harry? Why did he feel a wave of sadness at that name, and the memory of a firm, callused hand on his shoulder? Dale paused as a swift, murky memory of a forest and a dark, moonlit pool. He could hear his friend shouting, but he couldn't make out his words. There was a woman. There was a woman hurt, horribly. Something had gone wrong. As soon as he tried to make sense of this, it slipped away. Harry.

*******

A green subaru slowed down outside of the Shop. The driver pulled over, and put her hazard lights on. She lowered her sunglasses and watched the sole customer wandering from pile to pile of junk. He had made it at last. Dale ended up here, too. Jesus. She had hoped against hope. But here he was. She knew what that meant.

Anything - anyone - that was lost ended up here. She wasn't sure exactly how. But for a long time, she had helped any kind souls find their way out of the shop and make the best existence they could here in the desert. Most of them had no idea how they came to be here, and she didn't feel a need to tell them. They used their own memories and hopes to invent a context for themselves and as long as they were happy, that was good enough for her. No sense chasing a life that didn't exist anymore.

Denise crossed her hands on the steering wheel and leaned her head on them. Dale looked horrible. It had got pretty bad, before she was called away. The Palmer case had ended sourly, more blood was spilled, and Dale ended up committed. It had been a few years since she had been able to make it up north, but she didn't mean to loose touch this long. She had hoped to not see him here, looking lost like this. He was wearing wrinkled, stained clothing, there was a few days' growth of beard on his jaw. His eyes were hollow, like an old person's when they loose the thread of familiarity.

If she went in, she may shock him. This was a delicate time. It had been a while since she saw one this bad. She fingered the little brass wadjet charm dangling from her rearview mirror as she considered what to do. She wanted to make sure he was alright.

The Shop was not a comforting place, but it was safe. He'd be alright there. She glanced at the lantern above the shop door, with a matching charm painted on its glass, the open eye with a long swooping curve beneath, green like pine needles. She had a friend working there, after all, someone familiar with lost souls. She decided to let Margaret handle him first, then leave him to find his own way. When he was ready, he'd end up at her bar. She flipped open her phone and called Margaret to make sure she knew what was going on.

He'd be ok, eventually, but she wanted to make sure no one else found him while he was so vulnerable.

“Margaret, it’s Denise….Yes, yes….I know. Listen, can you please keep an eye on him? Make sure you give him an amulet. Oh, I don’t know, any of them. Yes. Yes, the snake one. See if you can get that around his neck. No I won’t come in. It’s too soon. It is too soon, Margaret, I don’t care what your log says! OK….ok….keep an eye on him, please?”

*****

Dale stood at the register patiently, as the woman in the thick cardigan spoke on the phone, her finger hovering just over the button on the register, holding his transaction up for - what was it - three whole minutes? There was an unusual pattern on her sweater, almost like birds, or wings.

It must have been an important call. She was quiet, but adamant in her tone. He glanced out of the shop window at a green hatchback, seeing a head of thick auburn hair that gave him another rush of familiarity. Whoever that woman was, she drove off as soon as he looked at her. He returned his attention to the shopkeeper, now off the phone, her finger still poised above the register.

She looked at him, her eyes deep and strange behind her large glasses, blinking owlishly.

“Mister, I must inform you that we are running a special today. Every tenth customer gets to pick a free gift from the case I am about to show you. No messing around.”

She took a leather case from the counter and came around to stand next to him. Far too close for his liking, but she seemed to mean no harm. “Everyone who ends up here needs something. You have what you think you need, now let’s see what you really, really need.” She opened the case and in it was one single silver necklace, with an exquisitely wrought serpent twined around the stem of a 5 petalled rose. It looked far too valuable, but it was the only thing in the case. She clearly wanted him to have it.  She was waiting, her glasses shining in the artificial light.

“Ma’am, it’s beautiful, But I can’t take this. It looks very valuable.”

“Yes, yes you can and you should. You….you have made a generous purchase from this shop. Now put it on.” She extracted the necklace from the case and opened it, starting to put it around his neck.

“Whoa, whoa...ok, Ma’am. I’ll try it on for you.” He took the chain from her fingers, and clasped it around his neck, trying to avert her intense gaze.

“It….looks...beautiful on you.” She said, her tone making the compliment sound like an accusation. But as he settled the charm around his throat, she let out a breath, and her shoulders softened. This complicated little woman looked relieved.

“I’m very happy for you, Mister”, now sounding like she was praising a kindergarten child for cleaning up his toys. “Very happy. Let me wrap that mug for you”

 

*****

Margaret watched him leave, nodding at the familiar carriage of his shoulders. Even in the state he was in, there was still some starch and polish about him. She remembered how he once was, how soft, how polite. She remembered how he smiled, especially right before that night in the forest. She wondered if he’d ever do that again.  
It had been hard for her to feel,and to talk, after her husband died. She did the best she could, but she always worried she scared those she tried to protect.

She knew nights in the forest were dangerous. Old things hid in those woods. That’s why when she was tired of her own life in those woods, she throw her lot in with Denise and became what she became.

She couldn’t do much for Dale, but she did what she could, pointing him in the right direction as she had done before. At least he wore their sign now, in case anything from the cold forest night came in the door, raging down the spine of the Rockies to this weird desert.

Margaret knew it would. She knew many things before they happened, more than Denise. But she kept to herself as much as possible. It was safer this way.

*******

Dale was halfway down the street before he recalled he never paid for the mug. But he didn’t have much desire to go back to that strange shop and that little birdlike woman. He felt like he used to have someone to confide in, someone always with him. Not Harry. Someone else. He used to talk to her all the time, and she’d always listen. Again, it was less a memory than an impression. He let it go. He was learning swiftly to let go and keep moving.

As he hurried off to no place in particular, he noticed a yellow scrap of paper in the gutter. Stopping, he picked it up and examined it. It was a flyer, crumpled and dirty. He straightened it out. The ink had worn away from exposure, but he could see a triangle, and make out the words “StrexCorp: We want to see you smile!”

As he read the words to himself, he heard a distant helicopter beating its blades against the desert air, so far off and faint it sounded like a wolf’s growl. He felt that now-familiar sliding feeling, like he was trying to remember something. He remembered a scream, he remembered the taste of blood.

Standing stock still in the street, he could smell the tang of greasy fur - no - hair, and all he could see were open mouths and teeth by lantern light. Bloody teeth in the mouth of a woman, screaming, screaming from somewhere deep in her soul. Then Sharp yellow teeth, fangs, really. A beast...no, a man. A man and a terrified woman. He felt a wave of guilt wash over him. These disjointed impressions were making him feel as if he had committed some horrible sin. But he had no idea what this all meant.

A beam of reddening evening sunlight seared his eyes. He was back in this small desert town again. There was nothing but the neat shops, their adobe colors growing pink as the sun set. Evening. Dinner. He felt his stomach churn and remembered he had to eat. There was a diner ahead, flanked by a bowling alley and a fun-plex. A neon moon on the sign crackled into life as the air deepened around him. “The Moonlite All-Nite Diner,” he murmured to himself, “wonder how their pie is.”


	2. Fish out of Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos, as the newest resident of NV, finds his way to Denise's bar and the company of a handsome   
> goth working in broadcasting. Wonder who that is.

He had been visiting the ReBar every Friday for a few weeks. He was new in town, and he didn't know anyone outside of a few town officials and the bartender, Denise. She didn't even know his name, but he thought of her as a friend, or at least a warm acquaintance. Rumor has it she used to be in the FBI or something and retired after a really big case went bad, but he didn't know the details. Carlos couldn't quite wrap his head around that mental image, and he wasn't one to ask too many questions – of people, anyway.

He could ask many things of chemicals, reactions, and specimens - yes. He was far more comfortable with his notebooks and machines. Equations and experiments were easier to deal with. A few simple rules and you were in with anything scientific. But people were inscrutable. There are so many rules he didn't know about, so many ways in which every encounter could go wrong. So many variables he could fuck up.

And of course, he had to want people. Why couldn't he be happy just being alone? 

So he would put on his jeans, and be a little ashamed at their being snug. Grad school had given him a little gut that he wasn't happy with but couldn't shake. He’d run a comb through his hair, sighing at the early greys showing through the black strands. And he’d drive on down to the ReBar. Anxious as it made him, this was becoming his home away from home. He wasn't sure why he kept going, but he wasn't truly happy with staying alone. 

New places were hard for him, and this was by far the strangest place he had been. Nothing had prepared him for this town. Grad school wasn't like this, and neither was New York. The eastern seaboard and its bustle were dreams now. He couldn't really melt into the crowd like he was used to doing. He was visible here - a new man, awkward, knowing nobody. 

Denise ran the place quieter than bars back east. You could hear yourself think over the music, and actually order a beer without screaming. But it was still a bar, and once more he was a knot of anxiety. Why do I do this to myself, he thought? Why don't I just stay home, or stay at the lab? I don't do social, he thought. But worse was the thought that he would spend every night cloistered away like he used to. At least one person here knew his name. That gave him some small comfort.

The lights from the dance floor gently stroked the sparse knots of people swaying together. Couples with their arms entwined, trios even, gently stroking each others’ hair and moving closer and closer. Carlos blushed and looked away. He wasn't so great at dancing, and there was no way he could bring himself to join in, so he clung to his beer. In an effort to cheer himself up, he decided to try talking.

“Hey Denise, why is this called the ReBar?”

“Sheryl, my wife, she’s in construction.”

“Ohh, I thought maybe there was an old bar and it burned down or something and you re-started it. Re-Bar. Re-...” He suddenly grew quiet, embarrassed at his own rush of words.

“Ahh, no. It seemed appropriate when we opened the place. Kind of stereotypical for a couple of gals, I know, but we like to laugh about it.” Denise nodded her head to the framed photo by the cash register. Both of them smiling into the camera, cheek to cheek in front of a sunset. Sheryl’s tightly curled black hair glowed in the warm light, her delicate arm draped over Denise’s shoulders, matching manicures clutching glasses of prosecco. “That was our last anniversary,” She smiled and picked up the frame, wiping a smudge off the corner, “We’ve been married ten years.

“When I first got to town, “ She continued, “I didn't know anyone, either. People generally don’t. I came here to be alone, I thought. At that time, I had had a bad couple of years. I had been through a lot at the bureau. A case had gone very, very bad some years back, and a dear friend was...well, he was in a bad way. Neither of us were promoted after that. People connected to that case soon had a weird reputation, and work had become very strained. And, let’s face it, when you’re connected to something that large and strange, you often leave support behind. It soon became a cold place for someone like me.” She sighed and looked down at the floor.

“Wow, Denise. I’m sorry. But weren't there...resources and stuff? Weren't there protections?”

“Protections? Yes, on the book. But I was already a marked woman for trying to support my friend in an investigation. But I don’t want to bore you with details.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, Denise, but you can’t be fired for coming out, can you?”

“At that time, yes. But I wasn't fired, oddly enough. I was protected by my reputation. But I was soon cut out of the boys’ club - twice First time, for coming out, the second time for associating with other people no longer in that club. I was friends with the wrong crowd, Carlos. They had been sort of able to handle me in a dress, but I pissed them off more; I stuck by someone that was in bad favor, and I started paying for it, even though he was in the right. But after all we had been through, I didn't have patience for the bullshit any more. I left. Took early retirement and came here.”

“Why here?”

“It’s quiet, there’s a distinct lack of bigots, and,” she lifted the photo of Sheryl down to hold it in front of him, “wouldn't you follow this hottie?

“Well, I wouldn't, but I see your point!” They shared a small giggle. Carlos sipped his beer and continued, “I can’t imagine having to leave your career because of that. When I...when I told my advisor I was gay, he seemed bored. I never had to worry about that, like you did. I can’t imagine…”

She smiled at him, warmly, wisely, and rested her hands on the bar. “I’m glad you can’t. After I left there, Sheryl and I worked pretty hard to make sure you kids don’t have to imagine. Although I hope you do. But enough history lessons for now, want another?" she asked.

"No, it's ok, I'm not done with this one yet."

"Why don't you get out on that floor? Cute thing like you should dance." Denise curved her red lips into a smile, the lines around her eyes deepening. 

"Easy for you to say.” Carlos hunched over a little, embarrassed.

“Go on, lighten up!” Denise cocked her head at him, and looked at him a little keener. “I don’t know your whole story, but you look like I did when I was your age. Confused, terrified, but eager. You seem to be holding back. Go on, Carlos. What have you go to loose?”

The last shred of my self-respect, Carlos thought. He looked for a second at the clock on the wall over Denise’s left shoulder. It wasn't moving. It had never moved. That wasn't the first one he noticed like that. But first, other matters. What did he have to loose? “Ok, I’ll give it a try.” He stood up and tugged his shirt down over his belly and squared his shoulders. 

“First, some courage,” Denise poured an amber-colored shot and placed it in front of him, looking meaningfully at him from under her fringe. Carlos nodded, half-smiling, and belted it. 

Whatever it was burned, but that grounded him and he felt a small wave of confidence. Denise was right - It was time to get down.

Carlos crept onto the dance floor, trying to keep in rhythm with the music, hard as that was. Dancing didn't come naturally to him. He tried to bounce along, not taking up too much space, trying not to touch anyone. He envied those guys that could just shake their ass and immediately have someone come up to them. 

Was he doing it right? Were there moves he was supposed to make? Would he look weird if he was dancing by himself? There were so many variables to figure out. 

He felt his mind slow a little, and he knew he was getting a little drunk. He thought of Denise’s story. He was pretty lucky shyness was his only problem. He wished he could be like her - smart and direct, going for what she wanted. 

He saw people moving their arms and shaking their hips at the same time, and he realized he hadn't moved his arms much. Not wanting to look weird, he tried to wave his arms, peeking out of the corner of his eye to try to copy the people closed to him. Unfortunately, his elbow swiftly connected with the side of a tall man in a hawaiian shirt.

“Oh shit, oh shit, I’m sorry man!” Carlos sputtered as the man turned around. He was wearing black robe under the shirt, with a deep hood that kept his face in shadow. Carlos felt like he was being glared at, but wasn't so sure. He slowly backed away from the silent figure, and retreated to the bar, humiliated.

*****

Denise watched Carlos wobble slightly on the floor, twisting her towel around the stem of a wine glass. Poor kid. That’s a tough place to be in - new in town, shy, and freshly out. She put the glass down and leaned up on the bar to watch him. At least he had the good sense to come to the ReBar. This was the whole reason she and Sheryl had opened the place, to collect every newbie like Carlos they could find and give them a safe place to stretch their wings, “to dance like no one was watching”. She snorted at the inevitable cliche.

“Like no one was watching”, indeed. Carlos on the floor was, at best, a sight. Jesus, the kid had no idea what to do with his hips. But everyone was drunk so it shouldn't matter much. Time for him to spread his wings a little. Can’t cling to the bar every night. 

 

********

Denise stood over the crumpled mess of scientist on her bar, shaking her head. 

“Kid, you have to let up on yourself. You’re ok. New places are hard, and it’s even harder when you’re just out.” She reached out and stroked his shoulder, “It’s ok honey”.

“Denise, I made an ass of myself!!”

“No, honey, *that* is making an ass of yourself.” She flicked her chin back at the dance floor at one of her other regulars, and Carlos turned to look. She motioned toward a tall, wiry man with long dark hair, wearing a closely tailored shirt under a tweed vest. “He’s a great guy, but he cannot dance to save his life. Looks like he’s bat-catching, not dancing!”

Carlos disagreed. The man had this weird grace about him that was fascinating. His sleeves were rolled up to show the loveliest tattoos Carlos had ever seen, scrolling up and down his smooth brown forearms. He was also wearing what looked like...furry pants and pointy black boots….But even so, he was beautiful. Eyes closed, he swayed and gestured with the music, alone in a corner of the floor. He had high cheekbones and lush lips, that he bit unconsciously.

Carlos blinked and sat up, distracted from his misery by that handsome stranger. The other man’s hands dipped and swirled, starting curls of movement that traveled down his arms into his chest and down to his thin hips. Every so often he’d flick his glasses back up his nose with long elegant fingers. Carlos was hooked.

“Who’s that?”

“He’s a nice kid - well, you’re all kids to me - works at the radio station, I think. C-something”

“Hneegh.”

“What was that?”

“Uhhh….no I just wanted to name...know…his. Name.” Carlos trailed off as Cecil raised his hands to his forehead and sensuously rolled his hips, briefly illuminated by the lights as they ran over the floor, his lips falling slightly open. Carlos audibly gulped.

Denise snickered, then did a double take. What was this? Was this new kid serious? She looked from Carlos to Cecil and back. Well that was the damndest thing. Who could fathom this? She would have paired this new kid off with someone more clean-cut, someone a little more...boring...she didn't see this coming.

“Tell you what, I’ll try to find out some more about him, and if he’s on your team, I’ll put in a good word. How about that?”

For the first time, Carlos smiled. Really smiled. He had a slow, broad grin that warmed up every curve and plane of his face. It was as if he had his own small sun inside him, lighting everything around him with a perfect, beautiful smile.

“Denise, I’d really like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To-do list for this:
> 
> 1) revisit Denise and work out a stable timeline, a bit more back story, and make sure her status as a transwoman is respectful (as TP didn't really, *really* answer that question - and so many others). Do let me know if this doesn't pass muster, is hackneyed, or otherwise problematic. She's important in the story, and I don't want to put my cis-foot in my mouth with her.
> 
> 2) same deal with Carlos being out. I want his problem to not be that he's gay, but that he's an awkward worrier. Again, there might be elements of his thoughts that I may need to add or subtract for realism. Because yes, we need realism in our TwinVale fiction.
> 
> 3) Cecil is pretty much just the eye candy here, but I want to make sure he stands out, as I like to think he's weird even by NV standards. So he may need some more refining...also, I want to adequately capture the "catch the bat, pet the bat, release the bat" style of goth dancing ;)


	3. Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!
> 
> It was magical. It was beautiful. It was last Tuesday.....Dale is working part-time with an oral history project for NightVale Community College. Old Woman Josie gives TMI.

Old woman Josie sat down in her rocker with a small grunt, and started fumbling in the pocket of her apron. She pulled out her zippo and flicked it open, touching the flame to the tip of the Marlboro in her lips. I handed her the porcelain saucer from the windowsill, and she nodded in thanks, exhaling a plume of smoke as she started to rock.

I placed my recorder on the folding table between us and clicked the power button. The tiny green light started to glow, so I cleared my throat and began.  
"Miss Josie, tell me about these 'angels', as you call them."

"They are so helpful. So very helpful. I can't see them too clearly, but I can't see much of anything too clearly anymore. They help me around the house, and they keep me safe and warm at night."

"What do they do for you? Minor repairs, gardening...?" I felt my question was too leading, but I needed to get a clearer picture of the situation. Facts were hard to come by in Night Vale. Sometimes you had to tempt them out.

"Oh, this and that, you know,"

"Miss Josie, I really don't-"

She gazed somewhere over my shoulder, interrupting me, "They are always there when I need them, and they are beautiful. At least they feel beautiful. They feel like nothing I've ever known. But now I'm used to them so I worry from time to time they're no longer special. But then one whispers to me, and it sounds like 'Don't worry.' So I let it go."

I blinked. This was not what I expected. I did not have machines or rubrics for this. What was she talking about?

"Sometimes they do things to me. Lovely things. Things I should blush to admit, but I'm old now so I don't care where my kicks come from as long as they keep coming."

I froze, gripping my knees, fingernails digging into my suit. "....Things, Miss Josie?" Had I heard her right?

"Yes, delicious dirty things. They have no ego, these angels, no socialization to overcome, like you human men" She suddenly looked at me, squinting slightly over her smoke, and I was reminded suddenly of her doctorate in anthropology. It wasn't well known anymore, but this old woman had actually been a giant in her field, and a sex symbol. I had nearly all her books from the 70s. Brilliant and sensual, she was the thinking person's crush, Ann Margaret with a PhD.

But her career ended. As she aged, she grew increasingly impatient with the academic establishment. Longing to get away from the cutthroat world of higher education, as well as its mighty bullshit, Josie had given up her tenure back east and retired to a tastefully decorated ranch in Night Vale.

"Agent Cooper, do you know how hard it is to be a thinking woman in this world? And a sexual woman at that? Even now, how many years after our so-called sexual revolution, a woman can't get her rocks off without someone judging her, without some man being worried over how his penis figures into the equation. Worrying about his own ego. It wasn't too long ago your average man would refuse to even eat pussy, lest he look less than macho!" She coughed and laughed, smoke pouring from her nose and mouth, "Ohh, you should have seen the dreadful porn they used to pass off as sexy. I don't know what you young people watch nowadays. Hopefully something with real goddamn orgasms."

My trenchcoat grew oppressive, and I wondered briefly why I kept it on inside the house. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I had nothing more to contribute to this line of conversation. I decided to just let Josie do what Josie wanted. And apparently what Josie wanted was to talk about her sexual fantasies. I glanced at the tape revolving slowly in my recorder. When it was time to transcribe this interview, what would Diane make of this?

Josie crossed her legs. Even at this age, she still had a voluptuous figure. She apparently favored housedresses and aprons, but under them she still had the build and catlike manner that decimated hearts and marriages up and down the east coast.

"Men disappoint me. So do women. People in general, interacting with them, buttering them up, dealing with their baggage - its' a bad idea. I wanted something pure, something stable. So when the angels started appearing, I let them in, so to speak. At first they were simply there, then I started to talk to them. They don't really talk, themselves, but they murmur and purr. I've come to know their meanings. They started by doing small tasks, changing lightbulbs, carrying ladders, and so on. I would watch them, worried they might injure themselves, but they're sturdier than they look! Their skin, it shines. Its thick like a hide, but if I touch them right, they shiver so nice. They're something old, old and natural."

"What do they look like, Miss Josie?"

Maybe I could make this sound closer to some form of reality if I had more details from her. But I wasn't sure my logic would work in the space between us, here, now, in her living room decorated in soft taupe and pastels. As she searched for the right words, I looked around at the O'Keefe prints, the dried flowers, and the fly buzzing around the plate of glazed donuts she kept out for company. She smoked for a few moments, silently, as the fly landed and pumped its tiny wings. I wrinkled my brow at it, disgusted. Finally it flew off and I returned to the present.

"There's no real good way to describe them. You have to experience them. You have to make yourself open and willing, and they will come to you and take care of you. They will sense whatever you need and provide. They're very giving."

"So, Josie....would you like to describe your last...encounter?"

She tapped the last of her ash into the porcelain and placed it delicately back on the windowsill. "It was last Tuesday, you know, when we had the parade? Well I hate parades, so I skipped it,"

"Like you do every year, I gather."

"That's right, like I do every year. Parades are bad ideas - temptations for fate. But anyway, I was home, and it was quiet, so I laid down for a while and they appeared. Five of them, like normal. What I can tell you is they're tall, and they glow beautifully. Like mushrooms or certain kinds of fish you see on those nature programs. It's magical. They glow brighter wherever you touch them. That's how you know you're doing it right, when you see their veins light up like constellations under their skin. They'll never really tell you what they need, but you can tell if you're doing something right.

Anyway, they climbed into bed with me, and we just all snuggled up for a while, and it was so nice. They'll hold you for hours, they will. If that's what you want. But at some point, I forget precisely when because precise times are for the petty minded, I started stroking the skin of the ones closest to me. They cooed and clicked and started moving against me. They reached out their wings and lightly dragged the tips over my skin, and I felt like I hadn't felt in years. Wherever their wings touched me, I was alive again. Noone has ever done this. Noone.

Everywhere I turned, I touched cool, soft skin and feathers. None of us wanted for a caress or kiss. They have mouths and hands, sort of. Five eager mouths traveling all over me, licking my neck, my hips my knees. I tried to return these lovely, lovely favors, but there were five! I was spoiled for choice. They're strong and gentle....patient. I stroked their limbs, their bellies, and I could feel their muscles shifting as they moved me around the bed. No one had ever held me that close. No one.

Two started nuzzling my tits, so I opened my arms and let them suck and nibble at me. It had got dark while we were all rolling around, and I noticed I was covered with trails of glowing, sparking saliva, all over my skin. My nipples sparkled, my shoulders sparkled...wherever they licked me, I was shimmering!

I squirmed and buried myself in their deceptively slender arms. They were stronger than they looked. I draped my legs over the shoulders of the next two and held my pussy open. The fifth one looked up at me, blinking all those great dark eyes they have. He purred at me, tilting his head. I guess he was new to this!

I smiled down and him and showed him- or her...them - how a pussy works...I rubbed around my clit, and up and down my lips, finally sliding my fingers inside myself. I held out my wet fingers and he licked them clean, following them back to my pussy. He buried his face in me, sucking at my lips, sliding one of his tendrils into my cunt. It was incredible - "

"Tendrils, Miss Josie?"

"Yes, dear, they don't have fingers per se. They are sort of plant like, with....tendrils they'll wrap around you for a hug or more. This one, he was fascinated by my cunt. He wrapped his limbs around me as the others licked and stroked every sensitive part of my body. I couldn't help myself, I started bucking up against his face as I felt myself about to come. They wouldn't stop kissing me, stroking me...They held me so close. Two of them lifted me so the first one could slide underneath, and I was totally lost in a sea of pleasure.

They took turns eating my pussy, gently exploring my cunt, my ass, my mouth. I licked at them, lightly brushing their 'fingers' with my teeth, while I firmly stroked others with my hands. As I worked, some of their tendrils grew firmer, pulsing in me. I came and came...one after the other, with no diminishing like what happened with human lovers. Each orgasm was a revelation. I clenched with my cunt, and sucked harder at the ones in my mouth.

As I came, so did they. They panted and made the loveliest sounds, each one tensing for a few moments for the final strokes, then exploding, leaving trails of shimmer on my skin and my sheets.

When we were all done, all of us, we laid once more in a pile. Everything was wet, everything sparkled. They folded their wings around each other, and cradled me, and we were all quiet and covered in sweet, slick juices. We looked like the night sky over the canyon. It was magical. It was beautiful. It was last Tuesday."

As she finished her story, in the fading light, I could see the flush that had formed on Josie's cheeks and decollete. I wouldn't say she looked young again, but she looked lovely, happy and fulfilled.

"Now let us sport while we may..." I murmured quietly into the spreading shadows. Josie smiled at me deeply, the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepening.

"Now you get it, honey." She sighed happily and looked out the window at the purple sky and kept rocking.

Who was I to judge? Who was Diane? Who *was* Diane? Who was anyone in this town of odd lights, beautiful strangers, and sleep deprivation? Who was anyone to judge anyone's delights?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter needs to have something before it establishing it as Dale's new "job", recording the oral history of the towns elders. This was actually the first Twinvale thing I wrote, as a lark, to make a group sex scene non-offensive. I think it worked. This does need to occur later in the series, but for now, here it is under the Twinvale heading.


	4. Diane, I Am In A Strange Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: brief self harm/suicidal thoughts towards the very end.
> 
> Some NSFW - Dale/Harry comfort sex
> 
> Diane, I Am In A Strange Place: Dale gets much of his memory back, and starts to recall the trauma that drove him from Twin Peaks. There's a lot of flashback in here, and not a terrible amount of physical action. Next chapter, he's gonna get out of his head and try to rebuild.

Dale sighed as he slid the key into his front door. He was back in his studio apartment at Mesa Crossing. One room, furnished. Just what he needed - no more, no less. It was only a little after 8:00 pm on a Thursday night. He had another night on insomnia ahead of him. What to do?

He set his bag down on a little folding chair by the door, and threw his coat over it. He mentally reviewed the week. It had been two days he had to stop by the old folks’ home and interview Old Woman Josie for the chair’s oral history project. He should probably work on transcribing it. It was quite a tale Josie told, but he didn't feel like revisiting it tonight. What else was going on, he asked himself. Not much...

He was settling in well to life in the history department of NightVale Community College. Tibetan Religion and Culture 101 was rewarding - he had proctored the midterm exam today and had 50 blue books to read. He felt a satisfaction at thinking about his neat grade book, and rubber-banded piles of student writing. 

Teaching was nice. He still couldn't quite recall signing any contracts, but he kept getting paid: every two weeks, he’d find a deposit in his bank account, with a mysterious set of symbols next to the name of the college. And he had been promised an additional section next semester. He felt this part time suited him. He trusted that the inscrutable bureaucracy of Higher Education was working in his favor. 

He stood, staring at the place he had considered putting a television, jingling his keys in his hand. He didn't want to sit at home all night, going back and forth on the tape to get all of Josie’s wild words down, nor did he want to dive into the pile of exams. He had to get out. He’d leave everything for tomorrow. It was still early, and he had all of Night Vale at his fingertips. 

**********

He turned again towards the door and decided to go to the diner. Something about that felt right. May as well. He hadn't been eating well lately. Must be the stress of preparing lessons and tugging responses out of his students. It wasn't that they were unintelligent, they were all bright. But they were just that - bright. Their responses, when they offered them, were lacking depth. They mostly seemed more concerned with being right than learning. 

Opening the door, he walked towards his car. No, no need. The Moonlite was close enough. Why not walk? The gravel on his path crunched beneath his loafers as he made the necessary left to leave the complex and re-enter Main Street. It would only be a few blocks. He looked up at the sky - it was a deep lavender, with a crescent of gold hanging low above the desert. The mesas were already a deep plum. He thought, as he walked, about the forces that created those structures. The violence, the shearing of stone on stone. This place was so placid now, so comfortable, but there was the fingerprint of hell itself.

Ok, Dale, that was a bit too silly, he thought. Still, he was fascinated by the evidence of unspeakable forces in the natural world here in NightVale. He had the idea he was a forest man at one point in his life. Maybe most of it. But now, he felt comforted by the expanse of rock and sand, as well as the little pools of neon close to him. Candles in the night. A collection of quiet, happy souls. 

Soon enough, his hand was on the chrome handle of the Moonlite’s front door. The clang-clang of bells alerted the waitress leaning on the cash register. She grabbed a pair of menus, throwing a questioning look at Dale. He answered the look with a smile and a single raised finger. She nodded and peeled off one of the pair, replacing it. At the same time, she straightened herself up, and led him to the banquette in the corner.

“What’ll it be, sweetie?” she asked, and a wave of menthol washed over Dale’s face. 

“I think...Ma’am, I think I will have dessert for dinner. Was I correct in spotting black cherry pie in your dessert case?”

“My kinda man! Alright, one big slice of pie. Want whipped cream on that?”

“Certainly!” Dale looked down at his hands on the table as she walked away. He considered the developing writers’ callus on his right middle finger, and the papercut on his left thumb. He looked at his left hand, at his little finger. Funny. There was a pale crescent around the base and a dent in the flesh. Almost looked like he had worn a ring there for many years. But he was certain he wasn't a man given to jewelry.

That strange, abstracted feeling returned. His mind felt heavy, and that it was trying to turn away from something.

**********  
Andrea shook the can of whipped cream as she watched the back of the man’s head. She’d seen him around town.. Clean cut, kind of cute. But very sad. His haircut was excellent, though. A perfectly straight line across the back of his neck. Military? Cop? she wondered idly, dressing the fat slice in loop after loop of fluffy white cream. 

Surely he had his reasons for being there. Everyone had. This was a town of reasons, even if they were only half remembered and semi-articulated. 

**********

“Enjoy!” Andrea set the plate down with a clink in front of Dale, and he smiled widely.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Dale picked up a fork and held it aloft as he turned the plate back and forth, considering where to take the first bite. This was a pivotal moment in the business of pie-eating. You wanted to get a good ratio of crust to filling to topping, without making a mess. He settled on a corner of the pie where the crust was slightly thinner, and dug the side of the fork in. Dark red juice seeped out and puddled on the plate as he scooped the bite towards his mouth.

As he relaxed into the syrupy sweetness, he felt the triggering of a deep memory. He let it come. Whatever it was, he would experience it. These last few weeks had taught him to take the ride when it came, wherever, however. He let the dark flavor of the cherries flood his tongue. Cherries. Black cherries. Where had he tasted this before? Not dessert. This was a more sensual memory, but sad. He felt a deep, elegant sadness at the satin taste of black cherries. What was this?

************

It came to him. It was Harry. Oh god. Harry. He had last tasted black cherries on Harry’s lips that night they...well, that night. 

It had been about two weeks after Josie disappeared. No one could explain what happened. The sheriff’s office was proceeding as if this was a normal death. But there was nothing normal about this. People don’t simply vanish. 

Harry was in a terrible state. Dale had visited him at his apartment that day. He let himself in, and took in a disturbing sight. It was cold, but the windows were wide open. The place was a wreck - papers and books everywhere, empty bottles, tissues. Harry was laying on the couch, disheveled and hollow-eyed.

“Harry. Harry. you can’t live like this.” Dale set down a bag of takeaway from the Double R on the stained and cluttered coffee table. “Have you eaten? Norma sent this.”

“Dale, I can’t. I can’t live without her.” Harry’s voice, already low, was husky and strained from days of hard drinking. Dale opened the takeaway bag and started to unwrap a thick burger and fries. Harry didn't perk up until he opened the container of pie. An extra large slice of Norma’s finest black cherry pie, with real whipped cream in a small plastic tub. Dale noticed, and, smiling slightly, started spooning cream onto the pie. He handed it over to his friend, sticking a plastic fork in the top. Harry took a couple bites.

Dale got up again and took off his coat, draping it over the coffee table. He sat again next to his friend, putting his arm around Harry’s shoulders as he shoveled pie into this mouth. “Harry, you cannot go on like this. I need you.”

“She needed me, too Dale, and I wasn't there. I couldn't-” He cut off his own sentence with a sob around a mouthful of cherries. Dale hugged Harry close, trying to comfort him, as the man’s shoulders shook with each dry sob. “I couldn't do anything….I let her down…..”

“No, no Harry. You have to stop this. She’s gone...you have to keep living.”

Harry put the container down on the rug and curled into his friend, weeping silently, his fingers clutching Dale’s lapels. Dale wrapped his arms around the other man, stroking his dark curls. He had no idea what to do, feeling Harry’s hot tears soaking through his white shirt. Dale pressed his lips to the top of Harry’s head, wishing he could take away the pain his friend was feeling.

Before either of them knew what was happening, their bodies had shifted enough on the couch until Dale was cradling Harry. Harry looked up, the dim light from his only lamp shining on his unshaven jaw, gilding the tears still in his eyes. They moved closer, almost in silent agreement, each man pulling the other’s body close, grappling desperately. They found each others lips and melted into each other, entwined, mouths open, tongues desperate, unable to be close enough. All he could feel at first was the desperate, feverish heat of Harry’s hands, and then Dale was lost in a sea of black cherries. 

Harry stood up, and, throwing one long leg around Dale’s lap, staring deeply into his eyes, jaw set, as he quickly opened his belt and unzipped his jeans. Too impatient to remove them completely, Harry lowered himself again until he was straddling Dale, groaning as he felt Dale’s throbbing cock through the wool of his trousers. Harry ran his hands up Dale’s shoulders, and brought them together until he was able to wrap his fingers around Dale’s tie. With deft movements, he loosened it, and started unbuttoning the starched white shirt. Dale pulled Harry’s hips closer, digging his fingers into the taut muscles of Harry’s ass, clawing at the denim, inhaling sharply as the other man started to lick his earlobes. 

They tore at each other’s shirts, frustrated at layers of fabric. Finally, they were free. Dale ran his face over Harry’s chest, scenting him, closing his eyes and licking at the thick spread of fur. He kissed and nibbled at the tight knot of his nipple, unlocking something in Harry. Harry growled low, letting his head drop back, letting Dale support his torso.

This was going to happen, one way or another. Neither had really considered an attraction before, but this was the only thing left. Harry was too alone, too far into his own grief. He needed human contact, he needed something to bring him back and make him feel safe.

Dale pushed Harry’s jeans down farther, exposing a dark patch of thick hair above his cock. Harry grabbed Dale’s wrist, and plunged his hand inside his jeans, crying out as Dale wrapped his hands around the pulsing thickness within.

Harry drew himself upright again, and pushed Dale gently back down onto the couch, laying his full length on him. They caressed, a tangle of fingers tracing spines, and teeth seeking out tender spots to bite. The room was silent except for their deep groans and quick, choppy breaths as they listened only to the deep-set need for comfort. Dale tried to wiggle out of his trousers, as Harry bit him hard behind his right ear. He forgot what he was doing for a second as the sensation bloomed over him and he shuddered with pleasure. Harry twisted suddenly, holding Dale around his waist, until he was on top. 

Dale braced himself on the wood frame of the couch as Harry tore at Dale’s trousers, stripping off the layers until they both lay free, flesh to flesh. They entwined, still kicking off socks, twisting around and around on the couch, unable to let go of each other for a second. Dale reached down and started stroking Harry’s cock again, twining the fingers of his other hand in the the thick curls on his head, gripping insistently. Harry bucked and shuddered, stretching like a cat, biting Dale’s shoulder, licking the tender crease under his arm, lapping at the coarse patch of hair there.

Harry ran his hands down the length of Dale’s back, until he cupped his ass, letting his fingers play on the tender skin, moving deeper and deeper until he was caressing the soft skin around his opening, feeling the deep contraction of pleasure. 

“Harry,” Dale panted, low and soft “Harry, I have condoms if you want to do this. Do you want to?” He looked down at his friend, eyes soft, “Is this something you want? I will do whatever you need.”

“No, please don’t stop….Just touch me. Don’t leave me. I need you, Dale. I want this. I want you.”

Dale leaned in and passionately kissed his lips. “I will do what I can for you. You call the shots. Anything you need, any way. I’m here for you”. At that, Harry started to cry again, silently. “No, no….no it’s ok….shhhh”, Dale fumbled his hand around to wipe away Harry’s tears, kissing them as they ran down his stubble-lined cheek. “I’m here for you. No rush.”

They resumed kissing, slower, and deeper this time, moving their bodies in rhythm, just touching, stroking, caressing. Neither was bashful, neither afraid. 

**********

Dale blinked hard, suddenly aware of the heat of tears in his eyes. They spilled down his cheeks. He had clenched his jaw hard as he lost himself in the memory. As he relaxed, a single tear followed the line from his nose to his lips, a drop of salt mixing with the sugar on his tongue.

That town. Harry. His friend. How? Why was he here? How did it happen? Something horrible happened, but he didn't know what. He knew now that he did not belong in Night Vale, that he was supposed to be somewhere else, that he had a life, and a career. He had been doing something...something that was connected with those visions of teeth and the drone of helicopter blades. Some horrible crime had been committed, people had suffered. And he had not been there to protect them. He swallowed the bite of pie, struggling to move it down his tense throat. He had failed. He didn't know how but he knew he had failed and something monstrous had come into the world. He dropped his fork and folded in on himself, sobbing silently. He was in a wrong place, it made no sense. He had become distracted or worse. He had failed. He had let harm come to the innocent, and those he loved.

Horrible ideas came into his mind, visions of ways he might harm himself, trying to have some sort of justice. He sat weeping, clutching his napkin, his knuckles turning white in the fluorescent light. His brain careened around without his permission, flooding itself with mental images of broken glass pressed to tender skin. He should suffer, he should hurt - he was convinced. These pictures tumbled over and through his memories of Twin Peaks: everything from the sound of his old car to the phone at the sheriff’s office. He could smell the oil on his revolver, the ease of wrapping his fingers around the grip. He had tried, he had been with good men, good women - their faces came to him now. What had he done?

Outside, off in the desert, those blades started again. They churned up the night as they swept closer to the town. For Dale, they sounded now like the ever present falls, constantly rushing, drowning out all other senses with their power. The sound of the helicopter grew louder, gathering speed as it headed in the direction of the Moonlite All-Night Diner.

He closed his eyes and rocked slightly, unable to form a coherent thought, or even a word. He prayed no one could see him. He prayed that he could just collect himself, and pay his bill and be absorbed into the night.

As the helicopter thundered overhead, rattling windowpanes, a shadow fell across Dale’s table. Oh god, he thought, this is it. What do I say? 

Thinking this was Andrea, he turned, and with eyes pressed tightly closed, he started to form an “I’m terribly sorry” with his lips, preparing some excuse about a vague illness to excuse his tears. But when he felt a hand on his back, and smelled a familiar perfume, he stopped. Opening his eyes, he saw a tall woman in blue jeans and an ivory silk blouse. She wore a beige jacket over it, and her auburn hair fanned out over its shoulders. A warmth and light radiated from that hand between his shoulder blades. He didn't believe his eyes, but there she was. 

“Coop. It’s me. It’s Denise. Care to join me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .


End file.
